


A Bookshop to Call Home

by Ethereal_Demon



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 3000+ words, Angels and Demons, Angst, Courtship, Crowley reads, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Metaphysical Sex, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, My First Fanfic, Nesting, Other, Pining, Wing Grooming, Wings, bookshop nest, dumbasses in love, he'll never admit it but he does, nesting fic, no beta we die like men, south downs eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-09-10
Packaged: 2020-08-12 01:17:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20163283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ethereal_Demon/pseuds/Ethereal_Demon
Summary: In an old bookshop in Soho, an angel has absolutely not been trying to woo a demon for the last few centuries.





	1. Hot Chocolate and Cushions

Aziraphale hummed as he poured milk into the hot chocolate. Food always tasted so much better when made rather than miracled, and he had taken the time to heat the milk in a saucepan to boot. None of this boiled water poured into cheap brown powder nonsense.

Carefully placing the mugs on a tray, he made his way softly into the back room. As he nudged the door further ajar he could have sworn he saw Crowley curled up on the sofa holding something. However, at that exact instant the door squeaked slightly and Crowley's vessel seemed to make a good attempt at jumping into another dimension. He struggled to recover himself, his hands conspicuously empty. Behind him, Aziraphale heard a slight thumping and tumbling, remarkably similar to the sound one might to expect to hear when a book is miracled almost back where it usually lived but slightly missed it's mark, causing a miniature avalanche.

“What? Nothing.” Crowley stuttered.

“Terribly sorry, Crowley, I really must get that hinge oiled.” Aziraphale said smoothly, setting the tray down on a side table.

“Right. Yes. Hinge. Far too noisy. Wake the dead with that. You forgot the marshmallows,” he added somewhat rudely, seemingly uncomfortable with continuing the conversation.

“Of course, my dear, I will be right back,” Aziraphale replied, glad of the excuse to leave the room for a moment.

Aziraphale practically floated back to the kitchen, a warm bubbly feeling in his stomach that rose up through his chest and threatened to leave his mouth in the form of a giggle. Crowley had been reading one of his books! He had always suspected that Crowley's assertions that he “didn't do books” were not entirely true. How could someone so curious about the world possibly dismiss the most effective (Aziraphale disdainfully dismissed computers) method of gaining knowledge?

Aziraphale made a mental note to figure out which exact book Crowley had been reading. He could forgive him the slight mess he had evidently made of one of his stacks of books, but he would very much like to know which subjects would entice Crowley to visit the bookshop more often.

The bubbly feeling solidified into a weight that sank back down into his stomach. There was no point in getting so excited. There was no evidence that the demon wanted anything more than the close friendship they currently had. He had seen his flat on the evening of the not-quite-apocalypse, after all. The place had seemed to be almost designed to be uncomfortable and not a feather in sight. The antithesis of a nest.

Aziraphale sighed as he looked at the home he had so painstakingly crafted over the past two centuries. He hadn't even realised what he had been doing at first. But after the church there had been no way he could deny it.

He sighed again and pursed his lips. Regardless of Crowley's motives, the hot chocolate was waiting, and Aziraphale was nothing if not a good host.

The evening went on much as they usually did. The hot chocolate turned into wine and Crowley slunk out the back the next morning.

***

The demon hissed at the black downy feathers floating to the bare floor of his flat. Was it too much to ask that the bloody things just stay in his wings?! He had long ago accepted that Aziraphale wanted nothing more than friendship from him. And that was fine. Good. He could live with that. Would gladly, greedily, take all he could get. But his subconscious seemed to have other ideas.

The feathers danced in the air as he stalked over to the fireplace that hadn't been there a moment ago.

“Get in!” he spat at them, pointing at the fireplace in what he thought was a threatening manner. The feathers seemed convinced, anyway, and a moment later they were laying in the fireplace, trembling slightly.

An acrid smoke rose up the chimney as Crowley stalked into the kitchen for a bottle of whiskey.

***

It was a few weeks later and Crowley swaggered into the bookshop with the intention of asking Aziraphale if he wanted to get lunch. In the past he would have rung him to organise a meeting but there was no need for anything so clandestine anymore.

“Aziraphale?” No answer. “Where are you, angel?” He continued into the bookshop, swallowing the memory of the last time he couldn't find Aziraphale here.

He poked his head into the back room. Nope. He flicked out his tongue. There it was! The strong scent of the angel coming from upstairs. He jogged up the steps and pushed the bedroom door open, where the scent was coming from.

“There you are! What the heav--” he started to ask before the scene registered.

No angel. Just pillows.

Countless pillows unmistakably filled almost to bursting with feathers from Aziraphale's wings.

A nest.

A nest hidden from Crowley.

A nest not for him.

The world tilted. He didn't hear the shop's door bell tinkle as it opened. Couldn't respond as the one being in all of creation that Crowley wanted to be with called his name. Forgot to breathe as he turned to face the angel who had been courting someone else behind his back.

“How could you?” his mouth asked the mortified face in front of him.

“Crowley--”

“How could you?!” his brain started to get back into gear as he prowled forwards, “After everything they did to you! They wanted to kill you, angel, not even a trial! And now you forget everything just to get one of them into your pants?!”

Aziraphale winced at the crude wording, “Look, Crowley, you misunderstand--!”

“I've been here for six thousand blessed years, angel! Six thousand fucking years and you can't even miracle up the courtesy to tell me! Well if that's how it is then fine! But don't expect me to hang around and watch! Call me when you're done with them.” He shoved passed Aziraphale, desperate to get out of the shop before the dam burst, a scream rising in his throat trying to choke him.

“Crowley, please!”

Not fast enough. Crowley snapped his fingers and collapsed on the floor of his flat, willing the world into nonexistence as a choked sob escaped him.


	2. The Obtuseness of Plants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale is nothing if not a creature of habit.

Aziraphale could feel the salty wetness on his face, but couldn't seem to move the arms that were clutching the brown package he'd brought home with him to his tight chest in order to wipe it away. He had never wanted this to happen. Never thought that Crowley would stumble across the room stuffed with feather pillows that he hadn't been able to stop himself from making over the years. He knew he should have got rid of them.

His face scrunched as Crowley's words echoed around his head. _Not even a trial!_ Well, he had thought he'd get a trial but upon examining his feelings he couldn't say he was surprised that he hadn't. _Six thousand blessed years!_ That was true. Six thousand years of dancing around each other, knowing that if either of their respective sides knew they were even friends they would not be happy, to say the least. _Couldn't even miracle up the courtesy to tell me!_

Aziraphale's frown deepened. Somehow those were the words that hurt the most. Is that all Crowley was upset about? That he hadn't told him he'd been building a nest? And yet there was something in the way he had been talking that suggested that maybe he was hurt for other reasons...

The angel drew in a shaky breath. Whether Crowley was upset because he thought the nest wasn't for him or simply because Aziraphale hadn't told him about it, he wasn't sure. But one thing was certain. There was only one way out of this mess, and that was to talk to Crowley.

It was a few more minutes before he could summon the energy to stand up. And a few steadying breaths before he was able to pick up the phone and dial Crowley's number.

_“Hey, this is Anthony Crowley. You know what to do, do it with style.”_

“Crowley? Look-- I don't know what you think is going on but I really need to talk to you. Perhaps we could meet for lunch? ...Crowley? Please answer me.”

Silence.

“Crowley, please. We need to talk. It's not what you think-- well... I-I really think we should talk about it in person.”

Still no reply.

“Look, I was thinking of going for a stroll in St James's tomorrow. Perhaps I'll see you there?”

After a few more beats of silence Aziraphale suppressed a sigh, said, “Well, be seeing you, then,” and hung up the phone.

The shop felt even emptier than usual.

***

True to his word, the next day Aziraphale went to St James's park and walked along the paths, hoping that a certain demon would step out of the bushes and join him. He pretended to admire the greenery (though privately he thought it was nothing compared to Crowley's plants) for almost an hour, and once his legs got tired he went and sat at their usual bench, bread in hand. But still there was no sign of Crowley.

It was starting to get dark when he finally gave up, heart heavy. He brushed the remaining crumbs off his hands and almost headed back to the bookshop when a thought struck him. He knew where Crowley lived, after all. And with both Heaven and Hell keeping their distance there really was no reason he couldn't just call on Crowley at his flat. And it really was dreadfully important that they talk this through.

With a resolute nod and a shaky breathe, Aziraphale set off.

It took a little longer to get there by bus than it would have in the Bentley. The Bentley that was still sitting outside the bookshop after Crowley had teleported away.

Aziraphale range the doorbell and waited.

No reply.

He let out an unsteady breathe and tried again.

Still nothing.

He twisted the ring on his pinky finger, considering his next move. The polite thing to do would be to leave and try again in a day or two. However, after some thought he decided that the situation called for a little rudeness. He pushed open the door that was now miraculously unlocked and went inside.

He took the elevator to the top floor and hesitated momentarily outside Crowley's door.

He knocked. When that yielded no results he shook himself (_Of course if Crowley didn't respond to the doorbell he wasn't going to do so to knocking either, you daft creature._) and let himself in.

“Crowley?” he asked an empty room.

Hesitantly, he edged further into the flat. It was quiet.

Too quiet.

Aziraphale's chest squeezed around his heart as he fruitlessly wondered around the rooms, ending up in the greenhouse. The plants were too calm, too happy. They were gently swaying with all the smug relief of a put-upon servant who had been told that their master was going to be away for a good while.

“Hello, my dears,” the angel said to the plants, “Don't suppose he told you when he'd be back?”

The plants gave the vegetative equivalent of a careless shrug.

“I see,” he said, feeling a thickness in his throat and a tingling behind his eyes. “Well, thank you all the same.”

He stood there for several more moments before forcing himself to leave. He was so lost in thought on the busride back to the bookshop that he almost missed his stop. But he couldn't miss the gaping emptiness on the street outside the nest.

The Bentley was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the kudos and comments for the first chapter! I can only hope that the second has lived up to all of your expectations. <3


	3. Accidentally Gone Right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How dare Aziraphale court anyone else?!

It took him three years to find it.

At first the grief had crumpled Crowley, but he quickly realised he was da-- ble-- _something_ if he was going to let _his_ angel go without a fight. Hell, he was gonna make Aziraphale _rue_ the day he had decided that anyone else could possibly be a more suitable mate for him than Crowley.

So he had gone looking for it. And three years, one month, and five days, after stumbling into that blasted bedroom he was standing in front of the bookshop, heart hammering, carefully wrapped package in hand.

He swaggered defiantly up to the door and banged his fist on the glass, ignoring the “Closed” sign. There was no answer so he knocked again, even more forcefully, threatening the integrity of the window. He heard footsteps, and his throat closed up and chest tightened. He briefly considered running away but before he could argue himself out of his plan the door opened and a rather cross looking angel stood before him.

Aziraphale drew in a sharp take of breath. “Crowley?” he said uncertainly.

Crowley thrust the package towards him. He had intended on making a big speech along the lines of “Did you really think that anyone could possibly do better than me?” but his mouth appeared to have gone on strike.

When Aziraphale stared at the package in confusion, making no move to take it, Crowley wrestled with his mouth for a few moments before managing to get out, “I got it for you. For your nest.”

Comprehension and wonder lit up the angel's face and slowly, reverently, he reached out to take it. Crowley narrowly managed not to jiggle nervously, instead standing as still as a waiting snake as Aziraphale unwrapped the book.

The angel gasped. “Is this...?”

“Yup.”

Aziraphale gazed in wonder between the book and Crowley. Then he swallowed. “Would you like to come in?” he accepted the gift.

Crowley nearly tripped in surprise as he followed the angel into the nest.

The nest that was decidedly more nestlike since the last time he had been here. Angel feather pillows now accessorised each chair and sofa. Including the sofa that was customarily Crowley's.

“Do make yourself at home,” Aziraphale said as he hurried over to his desk to peruse his new book.

Crowley paused in front of the sofa, fully aware of the implications of lying down on Aziraphale's feathers and unsure if the angel truly meant what he was implying. The angel noticed Crowley's hesitation and looked at him anxiously, waiting. Crowley took a steadying breathe and slowly, deliberately, so there could be no mistaking the action, lay down on the sofa with his head on one of Aziraphale's pillows. Aziraphale relaxed and continued to the desk where he quickly became engrossed with the book.

Crowley's heart refused to quiet as he looked up at a painting that had definitely not been on the ceiling three years ago. It was exquisite, full of emotion and layers of meaning, the sort of painting that you could stare at for hours and continue to find new feelings and details.

Stare at it is exactly what Crowley did as he tried to comprehend the enormity of what was happening. Aziraphale had accepted his gift. Whoever the nest was intended for, the angel had accepted Crowley's first play for his hand. The demon had been expecting competition but there was no sign of any other angel in the bookshop. The only feathers he could smell were Aziraphale's and a rival would certainly not have left the nest unclaimed after three years of courtship. The insidious seed of hope started to sprout in his heart. _Shutup,_ he told himself, _there is no way the angel made this nest for you. A demon. You just got lucky, that's all. Poor angel must have been rejected by whoeveritwas. That's it. Must be. No other explanation._

In such a whirl of thoughts he whiled away the hours that Aziraphale spent appreciating his gift. He longed to get up and explore the rest of the shop to find out what other tiny, huge changes had been made, but he stubbornly resisted. No power on Earth was going to make him disrespect _his_ angel.

Hours turned into days and Crowley smiled fondly. How could he have forgotten how oblivious Aziraphale became to the outside world whenever a good book was placed in front of him? With, a contented sigh and smugness swelling in his chest at his gift having been so well received, Crowley settled himself in for a long nap.

***

Aziraphale had no idea how long it had been when he finally recalled his surroundings. He looked around. Crowley was snoring lightly, sprawled on his sofa, his sunglasses folded on the side table. Usually Aziraphale would have left him like that, maybe fetched a blanket. But this was different. There were customs.

So, he got up and made no attempt to be quiet as he rearranged his books to give Crowley's gift pride of place. Eventually he finished his work and after giving it a satisfied nod, turned around to find Crowley hovering.

“Thank you for the gift.”

“My pleasure, angel. Shall I show myself out?”

Aziraphale smiled and nodded his assent.

Crowley sauntered out of the bookshop, and Aziraphale nearly danced with joy when a little later he inspected the entrance to find a single black down feather placed on the table next to the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My brain apparently decided that Crowley has selective mutism...
> 
> For those of you who are here for the angst, don't worry, there will be more ;)


	4. Good Books and Bad Books

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These two idiots smh

Aziraphale bustled around the bookshop nervously. The last time they had argued (well, not quite the last time, but words said during the stress of Armageddon didn't count) Crowley had slept for eighty years, and Aziraphale had fully expected that he would have to wait at least that long before he would see Crowley again. Especially after he had returned to the bookshop to find the Bentley very much not there.

Still, three years had been plenty of time to examine the situation, and do some fairly ruthless self reflection. Regardless of whether Crowley reciprocated, he owed his friend the truth, and bit by bit he had turned the bookshop into the nest he had always wanted to make for him. The pillows were no longer hidden, artworks tastefully placed in key locations, and books of knowledge organised invitingly on the shelves.

He had also kept the bookshop shut this whole time, breaking the last of his protective self illusions that the nest was anything other than what it was.

And now Crowley was back. Seventy seven years earlier than he had expected. With a gift. A gift for the nest.

Aziraphale needlessly straightened a painting and brushed away a few invisible specks of dust. How long would it be before Crowley returned with another gift? Would he return? He had _seemed_ comfortable during his last visit... the angel added another couple of pillows to Crowley's sofa.

He continued in this way until he heard another knock at the door.

***

Crowley viciously blessed himself as he looked through all of the things (mostly books) that he had picked up (sometimes stolen) over the last 6000 years. Gifts that he had never quite worked up the courage to actually give to the object of his affections. Countless things that the angel would love and yet not one that topped the book that Crowley had already given him.

The sometimes-snake hissed in frustration. Typically one started with lesser gifts and worked one's way up. But he had already given the angel the most impressive thing he could find in order to eclipse a rival that he apparently didn't have.

Crowley glared at the books for daring to not be good enough until he spotted one at the bottom of a pile which he had almost forgotten about. He moved things aside and picked it up. The demon grimaced. It would have to do.

The infernal being's mind did somersaults as he drove even more erratically than usual. This wasn't how he had expected things to go. In his frequent daydreams he had imagined Aziraphale being forced by his mate to reject Crowley's gift, and then being unable to do anything more than regretfully watch the demon saunter off, book in hand. His plan should have worked perfectly, except for one tiny hitch: the angel didn't appear to have a mate.

How was it possible he didn't have a mate? Crowley felt a flare of anger for whoever had dared reject, to hurt, his angel. The angel. The angel he was apparently courting now. His hands clenched on the steering wheel as anxiety took up residence in his throat and made plans to stay for the required minimum tenancy of six months.

Pity. Must me. The angel must feel sorry for him. Only reasonable explanation. Poor Crowley, the demon who somehow thought he could possibly deserve an angel. The was no way Aziraphale could actually _love_ him. Oh, sure he loved all God's creations. But there was no way he could possibly be _in_ love with him in any way, shape, or form.

That or loneliness. Crowley was the only one around so he'd have to do? The demon made a disgusted sound in the back of his throat but made no attempt to decrease his breakneck speed. He had already decided long ago after all; whatever he could get he would take it.

He shrieked to a halt in front of the bookshop and after staring straight ahead for a few minutes, forced himself to get out.

He swayed up to the door, swallowed, and knocked. As soon as he had done so he was bombarded with second thoughts. Was a week too soon? Should he have waited longer? What if it was too long? What if--

The door opened to a relieved and expectant smile. He held up the book that he had smuggled out of the Library of Alexandria so long ago. The angel's eyes widened and once again he accepted the gift.

The demon felt a surprised swooping feeling in his stomach as he walked in and noticed the black feather that was now hung from a thread over the doorway. He sauntered after the angel into the back room and went to sit on his sofa, but stopped short when he saw the single book that had been placed on the adjacent table. The exact book that he had almost been caught reading three years ago.

He stared at it in shock. Did the angel know? How? He'd been so careful over the decades... but the last time it had been a close thing...

Not wanting to upset the angel, he lay down on the sofa and stubbornly refused to acknowledge the book's existence. He glared up at the painting above him, his heart making painful twinges in his chest. _He's just being nice,_ he told himself furiously, arms crossed. _No, not nice. _Mean_. He's clearly taunting me. “Ha ha look at the demon who reads books!” Bastard._

His mind refused to let him sleep this time, and when he left a few days later there was no new feather left at the doorway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short hiatus, rl got crazy. Hope you enjoyed this chapter!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! More chapters to follow soon!
> 
> Comments are welcome but this is my first fic so be gentle :P


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